Dead Men Tell Tales
by newdisaster77
Summary: A submission for the f***yeahjohnlockfanfic August Case Fic contest. John Watson is going through the motions almost two years after Reichenbach. Then someone brings to his attention the interesting coincidence that crimes being done now are mirroring old cases he did with Sherlock. Now John is back on the battlefield once more. His only question is why.
1. Chapter 1

**SO THIS IS WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING. It sucks and I know it does, but I wanted to have some sort of entry for the Case Fic contest for .com girls, so I did this. I will be working on Soulless a LOT more now! Anyways, here's this for you!**

John pulled the zipper on his coat up a bit. It was awful, as spring was deciding to dish out bitter winds and random downpours. It was far too cold for this time of year. His nose felt like if touched it, it would break off, shattering and sending a horrid stinging sensation into the center of his brain. He hated days like today. The cold wouldn't stop, the rain wouldn't cease, taxis wouldn't slow for him —it was just making the evening seem so bleak and dull.

He found himself appreciating the moment when he opened to the door to his flat and the warm engulfed him immediately. He hung his coat and scarf up on the wall hook and walked towards the kitchen. No sooner did he take in a breath then he heard it.

Running. Running towards him at top speed. Heavy panting. He smiled.

"Yes, yes, all right, I'm home," he crouched down and let his dog lap affectionately at him. He ruffled the top of Tony's head and made the ridiculous noises one does with their dog when they are alone in their home. He chuckled and stood back up.

A shower sounded nice. A hot, long shower. However, his stomach turned and he realized he hadn't stopped for a lunch break during work.

Food first, then.

His leg twitched slightly as he sat down at the kitchen table, but he wasn't worried about it. All that concerned him was his buttered toast and the paper. Tony was quick to jump in the chair next to John and howl until John reached out to pet him with his free hand. He took a bit of his toast and then unfolded the paper in front of him.

The first thing that caught his eye was the phrase "Explosion Obliterates Baker Street" and for the first time in over a year, John thinks of Sherlock Holmes.

John suspects it's sort of like the feeling of diving headfirst into water and it's freezing cold. One might have expected it to be a bit warmer, maybe, or at least told themselves that. But it's utterly glacial and it engulfs John, starting from the top of his head and rapidly moving to his toes. Death was not new to him. He still remembered his friends from his Army days that had been talking to him one minute and then lying lifeless in front of him the next. But they hadn't done it on their own. Someone had taken that choice from them.

Sherlock had jumped of his own accord, and it was like a solid punch to John's gut as he remembered it all again.

But his eyes went back to the paper and he tried to figure out the details of what had gone on. He skimmed over the page:

"An explosion left a good portion of the flats on Baker Street destroyed last night…Scotland Yard was called in after the source of the explosion was found…ruled out as a threat…caused by an apparent gas leak…explosion originated in 221…" John shot up, "Mrs. Hudson!"

He was running to his phone before he could even think. In the process, he knocked the table and sent his toast flying. It landed on the ground and Tony was quick to attack it, but John didn't care. He went through his contacts to find Mrs. Hudson's land line and dialed the number. In that second, he realized that she probably wouldn't be able to answer it, what with it being blown up and all. Sure enough, a voice on the other end of the phone indicated the number he was dialing was currently not in service.

_ Now what? _He thought desperately.

John put a hand on his head and it came to him. Scotland Yard had been there. Surely Lestrade would have paid attention to an explosion on _that_ street.

"Come on," John groaned, "pick up, pick up, pick—"

"Lestrade."

John went to say Greg, but it'd been a while, "Hey! Lestrade! It's John."

"John! Gosh, nice to hear your voice. Didn't expect you to call."

In the back of his mind, John would bet Lestrade had expected it. An explosion on Baker Street? Last night? If John hadn't come up in Lestrade's mind in the last twenty four hours, John would break his copy of the Princess Bride.

"Yeah, it's great to be calling," John said, and he meant it, "but I have to know if Mrs. Hudson is all right."

"Yes. Luckily, she was out of the flat at the time of the explosion. She's staying with a friend of hers at the moment.

John let out a huge sigh of relief and collapsed in the opposite chair, running his hand over his forehead, "Well that's good."

"Yeah, sorry that you got panicked."

"Eh, you know," John blew it off and then there were a few horrid moments of silence. John hadn't spoken to Lestrade in at least six months. This conversation was what would be found on the audio examples of 'awkward silence' for years to come, because that was exactly what this was:

Awkward and painfully so.

"It was a gas leak?" John finally managed to say.

"That's what they say, isn't it?"

John heard the disapproval even over the phone.

"You don't agree."

"No. No I do not."

There was an edge to Greg's voice John had never heard before.

"Why not?"

"Look, John, I really can't talk about—"

"No, no, it's okay," John stopped him, "you just seemed irritated."

"That's one word you could use." Greg sighed and he laughed bitterly.

"Sorry, mate."

"S'alright. I'll tell Mrs. Hudson to give you a call."

John's face drained of color.

"No, that's okay. I just wanted to make sure she's all right."

"Well, she misses you, you know. First thing she said was that you'd be cross that the flat got blown up. Said you always hated it when it was a mess and was worried you'd clean it up yourself."

There were parts of that missing, John realized. Parts where Sherlock's name fit in. John always hated it when Sherlock made a mess in the flat. Greg could have said that, but he suspected that Greg didn't want to bring Sherlock up to spare him. He should have known better; an explosion at 221B Baker Street wasn't going to simply pass by John. Remembering Sherlock was unavoidable.

"She's right, too," he joked, "Should I head over there and hoover it now or later?"

Greg let himself chuckle a bit, "Probably later. Don't think the police would be too happy with you spraying Windex on a blast site."

"Damn, I'll wait it out."

"It's really good to hear from you, John."

"Yeah, it's nice."

"Listen, don't be a stranger, okay?"

"I'll try not to be. Just been…working."

"I understand."

"I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, cheers mate."

The phone clicked and John leaned back in his seat. There was so much he should do. Work was done and he didn't have to go in tomorrow until ten. He could read. There were always books to read, movies he hadn't watched, and shows he'd always wanted to get into. But suddenly, he did not want to do anything.

He hadn't felt like this in a long time. He hated it. He hated it so much. It was weak and stupid and pathetic. John Watson, army doctor, did not act like this. He didn't _feel _like this. He was strong. He was brave.

He should be able to STOP.

But his mind was shutting down and trying to dismiss all intelligent thought. It was telling him that he needed to call it a day.

It was so early in the evening that his idea was clearly idiotic, but the mind was a powerful thing, and it had now suggested this idiotic idea and was working hard to go through with it. John felt instantly fatigued.

Tony suddenly nudged his leg and looked up at him with those big Springer Spaniel eyes. It was consistently amazing how his dog could hold more emotions and portray a wider range of feelings than most humans John interacted with on a daily basis. He assumed this was because dogs, unlike people, were unashamed of how they felt. No one judged a dog for being sad that their owner had left them for so long or mocked a dog getting overexcited due to a piece of cheese.

"What do you think, Tony? Should we turn in?"

Predictably, Tony just barked softly and wagged his tail, trying to climb up his leg for John to pet him. John obliged, leaning over slightly to nuzzle the top of his head.

"Yeah, okay," he resigned, and made his way to his room.

There would be books and movies and shows tomorrow. Tonight, he just really wanted to sleep.

John prayed he didn't dream.

The next morning, John exited his room he knew someone had been in his flat.

He ran back into his room and grabbed the gun from his bedside drawer. He assessed the situation. Someone had been in his flat and left without harming John. Nothing appeared to be taken or even moved. As far as he could tell, the only difference was that there were now multiple pages from the newspaper resting on the table. There was highlighted text.

On top of the artfully askew paper was today's, John saw, and the headline was highlighted.

_Police Baffled By Anonymous Message_

John looked around his flat, double-checking and triple-checking before returning to his kitchen table. Tony was awake by then and had joined him in the kitchen. He started yipping for his food, but John didn't pay attention to him. There was something else getting his attention; the sub-heading said the words f_ive beeps left on DI Dimmock's answering machine._

Five beeps.

_Five pips._

There was an echo of Sherlock's voice in his head and John groaned. It was going to be that kind of day. He hadn't had a day like that in over a year and he thought that by going to sleep he could avoid it. Why did this have to happen now?

The paper didn't give anything away, really. All it said was that five pips had been left on the answering machine of Detective Inspector Dimmock. A wave of sympathy passed over him for Lestrade. After the whole scandal, it was no real mystery as to why Greg had been demoted. Scotland Yard was not too fond of him bringing Sherlock in for cases that were supposed to be confidential. Now he was doing grunt work to earn his place back in his rightful spot as detective inspector.

But it was just another tragic result of Sherlock's suicide.

John winced and then tried to pass it off as flexing his neck. He didn't know why, because obviously no one could see him, but he did not want this absurdity to be bothering him again.

He moved on to the highlighted text, briefly checking his watch. He had a bit of time before work, as he'd showered last night, so he risked a look at the selected print, starting with the bottom one.

_Woman Found in Abandoned Home_

"_On February 7__th__, an anonymous call was placed to the police saying a body had been found in an abandoned home just outside Lauriston Gardens. When the police arrived, they found the body of Kelly Foster, local news anchor and aspiring journalist. A missing persons report had been filed for her only two days earlier. However, the clothes she was found in did not match the description of what she had been last seen in. The body had been altered post-mortem and was wearing an outfit that was predominantly pink, from her shoes to her lipstick…"_

John's heart sputtered. He pushed the paper from him. No, he really did not feel like having that kind of day. He looked at the next paper.

_Three Dead: Murders Linked, Police Confirm_

"_The bodies of three men have been found over the past week: stock broker Daniel Fleming, courier Fred Higson, and museum worker Lisa Walloway. The connection to these three people remains unknown. However, the police have confirmed that they suspect it is the work of a serial killer, as there is a mark left at the crime scene (pictured below) and each victim had a black origami lotus flower somewhere on their body..."_

Again, John threw the paper down. Deadman. He remembered.

_No, no, no, no!_ He sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. Why had someone sent him the police reports of the old cases?

But then it hit him like a two-by-four to the head. Kelly Foster hadn't been the pink lady's name. Her name had been Jennifer Wilson (and God help him if he ever figured out how he could recall that so easily after three years). Nevertheless, he was certain that the museum worker's name had been Soo Lin Yao. He simply couldn't forget that. The beautiful woman had been a wonder to him because of how deceptive her sweet and fragile appearance had been, and yet she had already been a drug smuggler. It was astounding.

He remembered that seeing her dead had put him a state in which even Sherlock left him alone for a while.

He checked the discarded papers again and looked up the dates. February 7th, but not of 2010. It said 2013 right at the top. This crime had happened only last month. They'd found the body of a woman in pink in Lauriston Gardens, and John would bet he knew exactly which abandoned house it was.

John pulled the other paper to him. It was the same thing. The crimes were recorded on March 28th. Christ, that was only a few days ago. How had he missed that?

His third alarm went off in his bedroom. It was beeping obnoxiously loud, and John thanked God he didn't usually sleep to that point. Regardless, it was giving him an early morning headache.

**BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.**

"Yeah, all right, I'm coming!" John yelled, not giving a care that it was an inanimate object simply trying to do its job.

**BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.**

"I heard you!"

**BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.**

"Would you just—"

Five beeps. That had happened today. Or maybe yesterday.

An explosion on Baker Street the day before.

"Oh God."

Someone was recreating the crimes that Sherlock had solved. They'd already done A Study in Pink and the Blind Banker, and now they were at the Great Game.

Which meant-

**BEEP. BEEP. BEEP- **He slammed his hand on the button and his mind raced.

Someone out there could be strapped to a bomb right now. Or perhaps the bomb would just go off. It's not like Sherlock would be able to stop it this time.

The reality of the situation sunk in. _He_ had to. It was John's turn to save the lives of the innocent. If there was ever a time to seize the day, now was that time.

James Moriarty was undoubtedly dead. John had been present during the autopsy (holding tightly to Molly; she, like him, had to see it). He was dead and gone, so this couldn't have been him.

But Moriarty had a web. He had a legion of clients and for sure had at least one assistant.

Then again, this could be anyone. Anyone with the papers, an obsessive personality, and a touch of insanity would be inclined to do something like this.

Either way, John could not blow it off as coincidence. He felt guilty, all of the sudden, that it took something like divine intervention to alert him to the present danger.

Speaking of which, who had sent him these papers? And not just sent him them; they'd broken into his flat and left them neatly on the table. His paper from yesterday was there too, barely moved.

Something was eerily familiar, but he could quite get it.

He went to take his sleep shirt off, but he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and for the second time, the sensation of being watched came over him.

It was at that moment that John knew exactly who had been in his flat and exactly why he had been in his flat. He sighed.

"Okay. I get it. There is something going on and it has to do with me. Now what?"

Three seconds later, his phone buzzed. John picked it up from its charger and read it:

_It's time to go back to the front lines, John. –MH_

So that's how it was.

He'd have to call into work. He had to go to Scotland Yard with the papers. Of course, he wished he had a copy of the papers from three years ago. That would have helped him.

His phone pinged.

_The earlier records are on the living area table. –MH_

John shook his head and walked into his living room. Sure enough.

Next up was work. He tried to think of a proper excuse. Maybe he'd fallen ill. Luckily, unlike his first job when he'd come back home, John was rarely ever absent from this one.

"Mitchell Medical. This is Julie speaking. How can I help you?"

"Hey, Julie, it's John."

"Oh! I didn't think you'd be calling! Don't worry; it's all taken care of. We have taking care of your patients for the next week. It's all settled."

"Er…what?"

"Your friend called and told me about your poor aunt. I think it's admirable of you to take care of her like that. I hope a week will be long enough to help her."

"Um, yeah, me too. Thanks, Julie."

"No problem, John. We'll see you next Tuesday!"

"See you," he said and hung up.

Bastard, he thought, but it didn't stop him from smirking.

Speak of the devil:

_Your dog will be regularly fed and walked. –MH_

As usual, Mycroft thought of everything.

John went towards his room and looked into his closet. He was going to Scotland Yard and he had to be taken seriously. He had a job to do. Obviously, no one else had realized this pattern. No doubt it was because they probably had long since forgotten about Sherlock Holmes, and even if they remembered, they thought he was a fraud.

By turn, they might look at him the same way. Or with pity.

Because he was about to walk in and start talking about cases during his days with Sherlock. This was the first time he'd been in Scotland Yard since he came in for questioning after Sherlock's suicide and he was going back, only to have it be about Sherlock again.

It'd been almost two years since Sherlock had died and about a year since John had even thought of him except in passing. Yet suddenly, Sherlock was abruptly interrupting the normality of John's life and whisking him off on some ridiculous adventure.

All while his body rotted away in a grave.

John caught himself shaking his head. He couldn't think about that now.

He was on the battlefield once more.

John went to the table to look at the papers given. It suddenly occurred to him that all of the crimes listed were the cases after John had come into the picture, which immediately made it very personal. There was someone out there who wasn't just reinventing the crimes, but the crimes John had been there to witness.

He grabbed his black coat, the old one from what he now considered his glory days, and threw it on the bed. He pulled out his old red and white shirt and good pants before throwing the jacket over himself.

Uniform on. Gun hidden away. He really did feel like he was going into war.

Maybe he was.

_Well, Sherlock, it looks like I'm not done with you after all. _

John continued to ignore the ache in his heart as well as the fact that his leg didn't bother him in the slightest for the first time in a year.


	2. Chapter 2

"Yes, sir, can I help you?"

"Yeah, hi, um I need to talk to Detective Inspector Dimmock."

"What about?"

"I, erm, I think I may have some useful information regarding these murders that have been taking place."

"Which ones?"

This woman was annoying him. She was your typical receptionist, but she looked so bored with it that he resented her. He was trying to help the police find a murderer who already had four victims, as far as he knew, and she didn't seem to give a damn.

"The woman in pink, the three ones with the weird symbols on the wall, and I think the explosion on Baker Street was intentional."

The woman (her name tag said Rachel, which felt a little ironic to John) raised an eyebrow at him and then picked up a pen.

"Name?"

"John Watson."

"I'll ask him if he'll see you."

Suddenly, there was angry shouting coming from a back office. The receptionist looked around and John followed the sounds. At first, he wasn't sure he was hearing it right, but then Dimmock burst out of the office, with an angry-looking Greg Lestrade behind him.

"Get back here! We're not done!"

"I told you I'm not talking about this anymore! You're delusional, Greg!"

"I am not delusional! Sally!"

From the office emerged Sally Donovan with Anderson trailing behind her. The sight of the two of them made John's blood simmer a little—a residual irrational anger. John had dismissed this irritation a while ago. It had not been their fault. They had been played. Even Greg had, and if Greg Lestrade could fall for the tricks, then certainly Sally and Anderson could. Nonetheless, he felt a twinge of annoyance.

"Dimmock, this can't be chance. It mirrors it!"

"The circumstances are too much alike!"

"No! It's not that!" Dimmock, who had been walking increasingly quickly away from the three of them, rounded on them like an angry cat.

"You're guilty, the lot of you, and just because you want to see this doesn't mean it's there!"

"It IS there! Look at this!" Greg yelled. The entirety of the floor was staring at the four of them.

Sally and Anderson were standing behind Greg. Both of them were holding different sections of newspapers. John could see highlighted text from here.

Mycroft was being thorough.

"No! I'm not having this discussion anymore. This is not your business. You three are jumping on a hunch!"

It was at this point that Dimmock turned around and saw John standing there. He groaned and put a hand on his head.

"Bloody Christ."

Lestrade was walking up to John, "You see it, too?"

"Mycroft brought it to my attention, but there's no doubt in my mind," he answered.

"Listen you," Anderson said to Dimmock, surprising John, "Wake up. These are connected crimes and if John Watson is here, it confirms it. Not even you can fool yourself into thinking _he_ would come here on a hunch. John Watson is no idealistic idiot."

John would have been a little less surprised if Anderson had confessed out loud his love for all things prehistoric and rode off on a pterodactyl.

Dimmock looked at them and then sighed, "In my office. All of you."

John hesitated, but Lestrade motioned with his head and John followed. He went right into the corner and didn't move, watching and listening. Dimmock was ridiculously angry over this, when he should have been interested. There was a serial killer out there and he was about to strike again.

"So you all have come to me for the same reason?" Dimmock said once the door closed.

"Given what we know about the cases—" Lestrade started, but Dimmock cut him off.

"See, that's my problem! You lot shouldn't know anything! In fact, you don't know anything! You've never come to me in two years about any cases until this one. And why? Because it involves Sherlock Holmes!"

"That's because he keeps his head down so it doesn't get bitten off by you lot," Sally yelled, "constantly reminding him that he put his trust in someone and he was let down. It wasn't his fault."

"Someone brought this to our attention," Anderson piped up, "or else we probably wouldn't have even noticed."

"I know it's not our div-" Lestrade chipped in, but Dimmock cut him off.

"Damn right it's not! Or else you would know that we are already aware that all of these murders are connected!"

There was silence. John continued standing in the corner and watching their faces.

"How do you know?" he asked for the group. Dimmock looked at him for a second. John didn't miss the sneer.

"Because the killer leaves an unusual calling card," he said, before turning to retrieve something from the file cabinets. He pulled out a folder and set it on the table. He opened it, hiding it from sight of Greg, Sally, and Anderson. He pulled out five photographs.

What John saw made his breath leave him.

In four photos were bodies (one of them dressed entirely in pink) and on the walls next to the bodies was the same thing as photographed on the concrete in front of the burning ruins of 221B:

A spray-painted yellow smiley face.

"He's left it at the scene of every crime. We've no idea what is means, but it's obvious it's his work."

No one said anything. To the others in the room, this smiley face was just some sort of sick joke. To John it was another slap in the face.

"We also don't think the woman in pink is his first murder. We think she was simply the first one he intended to be in this string of crimes. Now, we're not sure if this is completely surrounding Sherlock's former cases or not."

"How did you realize they were his?" John asked.

Dimmock looked aggravated, "His brother was keen on pointing it out. He thinks that the crimes are centered on Sherlock."

"They obviously are," Anderson argued, "we've already done 'A Study in Pink' and the 'the Blind Banker'."

John pushed aside the amusement he received from hearing Anderson quote his blog entry titles and spoke up, "It won't be exact, because this is not Moriarty that we are dealing with, but it's safe to assume this person has access to explosives. You've already gotten the five pips. Did they come with anything else?"

"Just a picture of some sort of food," he pulled out his personal cell phone and held it up.

John's stomach spun when he got a chance to look at the picture.

"This is not just a case copycat," he mumbled, "this is personal. This is about Sherlock Holmes. Not his cases, but personally."

"How do you know that for sure?" Dimmock asked.

"The smiley face, for starters," John picked up the picture of 221B, feeling a hint of sadness but biting it down, "that used to be on the wall in our flat."

When the words "our flat" came out, John immediately realized that he was about to become the center of attention regarding this case.

"What about this picture?"

John swallowed hard, "That's a table at Angelo's. I'd recognize it anywhere. Judging by the lighting, I'd also say it's the table by the front window, as you can see the shadows of the frame on the table. It was taken at night, too, because the light is being cast from the lamppost outside."

"How the hell do you know that?" Lestrade asked John.

"I stared at that table enough times at night to know what the shadows from the lamp looks like. Sherlock wasn't exactly a talkative date."

There's a whisper of laughter. Apparently, with Sherlock gone, it was okay to joke about them being together. It was only looking back that John saw what everybody had seen and how they had naturally assumed it. So why not pick on it a bit?

"Is the food significant?"

"Yes," John leaned away from the phone, "that's the only meal Sherlock ever ate when we went there. He was aggravatingly picky about food."

"But what does that mean?" Sally asked.

"That, I have no idea," John shrugged, "back then it had to do with cases, but I don't think that's what this one is about."

"I think we should start making it our top priority to find this guy," Lestrade said suddenly, "If he follows the pattern he's at, there is going to be a lot more murders."

Dimmock nodded, "But what exactly is the pattern?"

"Obvious."

Everyone stopped and looked at Anderson incredulously.

"Isn't it?" he asked them.

"No!" Sally barked out.

"It's not about redoing these cases. Not just the cases, but the one's on John's blog. It looks like he's stalking Sherlock and there's no better way to do that then read John's blog."

No one said anything for a second.

"That seems fairly pointless," John finally admitted.

"Well not really stalking, but it's like an obsession. This seems like a very obsessive person to go through all of this hassle. It's demented fan worship. Like when someone is obsessed with John Lennon. He's long gone, but that doesn't stop people from visiting the Dakota building in New York. To stand where he stood when he was killed is a big deal for some people."

"We're not talking about going to see some place. We're talking about murder. Someone is killing people," Dimmock pointed out.

"There are two types of fans" John heard himself say.

"What?"

"Something Sherlock said a while ago; said he used it on Kitty Riley when she pretended to be a fan in the loo."

"And what are the two types?" Greg asked.

"The ones that want to sleep with their idols," John paused, "and the 'catch-me-before-I-kill-again."

"So this is type two. Extremely type two," Lestrade crossed his arms.

"I think so," Anderson said gravely.

Everyone was quiet again. Then Dimmock spoke up:

"All right. We'll put this on high priority. What do we do about Angelo's?"

Sally opened her mouth, but then closed it. What did they do?

"I'll go take a look," John volunteered, "Angelo knows me well enough. He'll talk to me if he knows anything."

"Not a chance," Greg argued, "you could get blown up!"

"If this killer is following the patterns of the cases, then the picture doesn't depict where the bomb is. It tells me the clue. The clue is Angelo's."

Dimmock clapped his hands together, "That settles it then. Greg, go with John to Angelo's and report back to me with any findings. Let's stop this guy before he gets anywhere near the level of the Great Game."

The whole room moved as everyone made to leave, but then John turned back.

"The Great Game?"

Dimmock flushed, caught in the act.

"Shut up. The cases were interesting."

John smirked at Greg and they headed to Angelo's.

The bell dinged as they walked in the door. No sooner did he step foot in the place than did Angelo look up and see him. Angelo immediately started glowing with cheeriness.

"John!"

"Hello," John greeted. Angelo walked around the bar to embrace him warmly.

"Welcome back! It's been too long!" He eyed Greg, "This your new man? You've got good taste, I would say."

Greg's mouth dropped, but John didn't want to go into it, "Unfortunately, this isn't a stop for lunch. I have to ask you some questions."

Angelo raised an eyebrow, "Dr. Watson, back on the case, eh?"

"Yep."

"Glad to help! What did you need to know?"

"This is asking a lot of your memory, but have you seen anyone suspicious sitting at our old table?"

The moment John said that, Greg's head whipped around, "_Our_ old table?"

John darted his tongue out to lick his lips. Good Lord, three days ago he could have safely said Sherlock Holmes wasn't even in the back of his mind. He hadn't _ever_ looked at the front window of Angelo's and thought "our table". But with Sherlock taking over his life again, he was catching himself over and over thinking about him and their adventures very domestically.

Our flat, our table, our cases, our adventures; "our" had replaced the word "the" in his mind.

He could access it all later. Maybe think about it properly. For now, he had work to do.

"You know, it's funny you mention it, but there's this bloke that visited two nights in a row. Wasn't but last night. I only remember him because of what he ordered."

"And what was that?" Greg asked.

Angelo's face went rather sad, "You boys' usuals."

John clenched his teeth. While Sherlock had always ordered the same thing (steak marsala with garlic mashed potatoes), John would explore a bit. But he had a favorite, and after a trying case, there was nothing he liked better than chicken fettuccini alfredo.

"So he came in here and ordered those?"

"Both nights. He ate both of them himself, too," Angelo smiled half-heartedly, "felt nice bringing those dishes to that table and all. Let myself think happy for a bit."

John wrote down the details in a notepad he's brought. The man had ordered both of their usuals? That was a lot of food.

"Was he a big guy?"

"Well, not big like me" Angelo joked and patted his stomach, "big tall though. Built like a train. He looked like he must have been two days out of the army or something."

That did not sound good.

"Anything else you can tell me about him?"

"Yeah. He said he was called Seb. And he said something to me when I asked after his healthy appetite. His answer had nothing to do with what I asked and it was a bit cryptic," Angelo dramatically shuddered, "that man has some scary eyes."

"What did he say?" John questioned.

Angelo stroked his chin, "Let me make sure I remember this right. He looked at his plate, cause he had some left, and…hang on, gotta make sure I say it just right—I'm sensing this is important."

"It could be," Greg encouraged.

"He said, 'I left something on the bench where the doctor had an encounter that changed his life. And I think it might be blown away', which doesn't make any sense at all."

John wrote it down.

"Can you give me a good physical description of him?" Greg asked.

"Sure! He's not the type of bloke you miss."

Meanwhile, John tried to steady himself, "Actually, I'm just going to pop out for a second. Meet me outside?"

"Yeah sure," Greg nodded, taking John's notepad from him.

"Thank you, Angelo, and if you learn anything else, please give me a call."

"No problem, Dr. Watson!" Angelo shook his hand enthusiastically, "Make sure to come back next time you want to take your date out for a nice supper."

Greg made to protest, but John just put his hand up to dismiss it, "Thanks Angelo," he said, turning his dismissal into a friendly wave.

Lestrade looked at him, but John just shook his head and smile as if to say "just leave it" and walked out the door.

Immediately, John whipped around and sat on the windowsill.

Jesus, what was wrong with him?

Without any warning, he had been prepared to forgo work and his dog without a moment's hesitation. He'd simply up and left! John had thrown himself head first back into this madness.

But his hand was steady for the first time in a year and he didn't need anyone to tell him what that meant.

He'd missed it. It was something he had purposely ignored the last year. John had lived and that was basically it. There was work, then home, then work the next day. When he wasn't at work, he took up small hobbies. You could ask him anything about the Korean War and he could tell you. He'd managed to start going to the gym as well, getting his body back in shape.

He may have learned how to sew, but he wasn't going to admit that one quite yet.

But John had always been completely and totally bored. It was the life he'd tried to avoid at all costs and had been tossed into after he'd been sent home.

Except now, there wasn't an encounter on a bench. There wasn't a strange coincidence.

There wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

John's heart rapidly moved to his throat. Sherlock had been much more to him than a quirky flatmate. With Sherlock came a life of excitement and thrill that John simply craved.

Then again, John was recalling his life with Sherlock and even that had been so much better. Just sitting there, watching tele, had never been boring. Not like how he was now, anyways.

God, now was just not the time. He could not do this now. Greg was coming out of the restaurant.

When he spotted John, Greg rounded on him.

"Tall, muscular, blonde hair, and what Angelo calls ice blue eyes. There is a scar running horizontally across his face and he smokes. Why didn't you say anything when he called me your new man?"

"I'll keep a look out. Greg, I went there for a year and told him frequently that Sherlock and I weren't dating. Trust me. Just let him think what he wants."

Clearly still a bit flustered, Greg shook his head, "Did everyone assume you two were together?"

A half-smile turned John's lip up, "Basically, yeah."

Tentatively, Greg lowered his voice and leaned in, "Were you?"

John laughed, "No. But I've accepted that it most certainly looked like it to an outsider."

"And an insider," Greg teased. John allowed himself to laugh again before Greg continued, "So did you find a clue in anything?"

"I'm a little curious about what he said. The doctor—"

"You gotta know he means you," Greg pointed out.

"Well, yeah," John conceded, "I don't want to sound vain, but I was involved in these cases, too. And if this is a deranged fan trying to grasp onto all things Sherlock, I'm…sort of a part of that."

"A rather big part of it."

"I guess so."

"What do you think it meant?"

"'The bench where the doctor had an encounter that changed his life'," John repeated, "what on earth is that?"

"Did you and Sherlock…go sit somewhere after a case?"

"No!" John snapped. God, that made them sound like little old ladies.

"Sorry, just checking."

"I don't have any idea. A bench? I don't even know what encounter I could have had at a bench."

"You have to think of this in Sherlock mode, though," Greg reminded him.

Immediately, John knew exactly what he meant, "Mike. I ran into Mike while I was walking in the park," he lowered his head, "because that's when Mike told me he knew a guy who'd be interested in a flat share."

"And then the next day you were standing over the body of Jennifer Wilson."

"Yeah," John nodded once, "we need to move. This guy left something on that bench and I don't know what it could be."

"Think it could be a trap?"

"Without a doubt."

Greg smirked, "We need to get to that park, then."

"Call Dimmock. Get a bomb squad, just in case."

"Got it," Greg pulled his phone out. They both headed back towards Greg's car. On the way there the police sent squad cars behind them, as John was the one who knew where they were going. The bomb squad followed shortly after.

This was the life John needed. This high-paced drive through London off to see whatever was left on the bench that could potentially be a bomb—it was welcomed. How horrid was that? People could get severely hurt.

He had done what he would have done if he'd never met Sherlock: nothing. He got a job, got a dog (though he loved Tony), and settled into a small flat and did nothing.

How could he have ever been annoyed with Sherlock and the life he gave him? He'd complained about it so much; finding a head in the fridge would be a blessing or violin at three in the morning or even waking up and finding his roommate perched at the edge of the bed like Gollum.

Why had he _ever_ seen that as annoying when he realized he would more than welcome it now.

Oh God, he missed Sherlock.

The car hit a bump and Greg asked him where to go again. John pointed and started keeping his eyes peeled.

Life with Sherlock had been beyond description and it was completely indicative that John felt alive again because someone had brought Sherlock Holmes back into his head and caused a stir at Scotland Yard. This was what John loved. He couldn't resist it. John found his adrenaline going.

_And I said dangerous…_

"And here I am."

"John?" Greg looked at him.

"Nothing, just— it's right here!" He pointed and Greg screeched to a halt. John immediately jumped out of the car and pulled his gun from his back and crouched.

Dimmock hadn't been kidding about putting this on top priority. There were at least three police cars, all with guns trained towards the bench, and the bomb squad was right behind them. John was impressed, until he saw the bench.

There was someone sitting on the bench.

That someone was Mike Stamford.


	3. Chapter 3

"No, wait please!" John shouted.

"Stand down!" Greg yelled. Technically, Lestrade had no authority over them anymore. But he had spoken with such absolute certainty that the guns lowered and no one moved.

"What do we do?" Greg asked John as he crouched next to him.

"I guess I'm going to go up there and talk to him. He doesn't seem all that surprised that there are men with guns pointed at him."

Lestrade turned to look, "No he doesn't. He also doesn't look surprised to see you."

" I'll go talk to him. I don't see any immediate danger."

Lestrade nodded and backed away. John stood up, clicking the safety on his gun and putting it back in his trousers. He started walking towards Mike at a slow pace.

Lamely, he waved.

"Stamford."

Mike turned his head slowly and looked at him, and there were tears falling from his face "Oh John, hurry please!"

Instantly John ran towards him. Only as he drew nearer did John notice what was wrong. Mike looked ill. The closer John got the more he could smell and this was not a good thing at all. Mike smelled of shit and body odor. John did everything he could not to plug his nose. Stamford was sweating profusely and the front of his trousers was soaked.

"Mike…what is going on?"

A manic, deranged smile came over the face of Mike Stamford, "I don't know!"

John stared at him, "You don't know?"

Mike shook his head slowly. John reached out, but Mike stopped him.

"No, if you touch me, they die."

"Who's they?"

"My family, John. He took them and put them somewhere. If I move, a bomb goes off and they die."

_Oh my God; _John had, in his adrenaline rush, forgotten this part about life with Sherlock Holmes: there are always lives at a much higher stake, especially the lives of those you love.

"How long have you been here?"

"Three days."

"Jesus," John put his hand on forehead. Three days. No food, no water, not moving, no trips to the loo, nothing at all. He wondered how Mike was even sane enough to talk to him.

"You're in danger, John."

"I could care less about that! Who did this to you?"

Mike sobbed, "If I move, somewhere a bomb will go off and my family will die. The people I love will die. If you touch me, they die."

"Mike, who did this to you?"

"I don't know! I just got attacked and then I woke up and a man told me all this. I didn't see his face! You've got to believe me!"

_The bag over his head. Bombs strapped to him. The pool. Sherlock's confusion. _

"Been there. Three days? Why so long?"

"He said I'd be waiting until you came and got me and that there is a clue that can save my family but I can't move until then. Now that you're here, you've only got an hour to find them, or else the bomb detonates."

"Where is your family?"

"I don't know!" Mike was sobbing heavily now, "He says you do."

"I what?" John's voice cracked.

"He left me with two clues, but I'm only supposed to tell you one."

"Why only one?"

"He'll shoot me if I tell you the second one."

"Jesus," John repeated himself and turned around, "where is he?"

"You won't find him. He's a sniper."

John snapped his head around and stared at Mike, "A sniper?"

Mike nodded.

"What's the clue?"

Mike swallowed and then started crying, "John I can't remember."

"What?"

"I don't remember the first clue! When he said it I couldn't hear him through the bag and I didn't hear it. I only heard the second one!"

"But…" John panicked, completely unsure of what to do.

"I have to save my family!"

"No, come on now!" John crouched down in front of him and held his hands up and put near either side of Mike's head. Mike started to panic, but John didn't touch him.

"Listen, I need you to think! Can you remember any of it? Any section at all?"

Mike shook his head and just kept crying, "I've been trying to do that for three days. You're running out of time. I want my wife and my kids safe, John."

Abruptly, Stamford stopped crying and looked up at John, "You're in danger. He asked me a lot of questions about you and Sherlock. He's obsessed. I don't know what he's planning, but if you've been a part of Sherlock's life, you're in a lot of trouble. Protect Molly and Mrs. Hudson," he turned his head and motioned towards the police, "and Lestrade."

John looked over at the police and then back, "Mike, please you don't have to—"

"Yes I do," Mike leaned away from John, "I think he mumbled it, you know; the first clue? I think he said it real quiet so I wouldn't be able to hear it. So that after all of this, I would die."

"Mike please, don't!"

"I've had three days. If you can come up with a better plan in less than an hour, I'd be glad to hear it. But my family needs me to save them. If I have to die for that to happen, then so be it."

"Mike wait no-"

"Make sure they know, will you? That I love them."

"Wait, please I can—"

"Goodbye, John."

"Mike, don't—"

"Dimmock's glittering career has never looked brighter."

John didn't know what he was doing, but he immediately threw himself on Mike to try and shield him. He tucked his head on Mike's shoulder and lie on top of him, but it was useless. The sniper was apparently at a set angle, and not the one he'd chosen. A bullet soared through the back of Stamford's head and out through the front. John threw himself off of him. He stared, unable to grasp what he was seeing.

Mike Stamford was dead. There was an exit wound on his forehead.

"Dimmock…Dimmock…Scotland Yard!" He yelled, trying to focus. He stood up and ran towards the group.

"There's a bomb at Scotland Yard!"

"What? How? Never mind! Let's go people!"

John dashed back into the car. The ride was a lot more desperate now, and he and Lestrade were going much quicker with the cops in front of them.

_Don't think about it. Don't think about it._

Suddenly John's mobile went off. Any normal person would have ignored it at a time like this, but John's mobile very rarely went off, and it was usually an emergency.

"Yes, hello?"

"He did tell you not to touch him."

Everything around him went silent.

"Who is this?"

"Oh Dr. Watson, I do wish you'd listened," the voice on the other end of the phone was gruff and sounded amused.

"No, please, I was just trying to…"

"He said you couldn't touch him or else I'd set the bomb off. You touched him. You threw yourself on him. The doctor in you always wants to save people. Is that why you stayed with Sherlock Holmes? To save him? Did you think he needed saving?"

"Listen, whatever you want, just tell me!"

"Too late, Dr. Watson."

**BOOM!**

John and Lestrade ducked out of instinct and it made the car swerve as the car was suddenly pummeled by bits of building falling onto the car. John looked up at the building. A good section of Scotland Yard was blown away. It was near where Lestrade's old office had been in, which meant…

"That came from Dimmock's office!" John realized.

Greg's face paled and he jumped out of the car, leaving it parked in the middle of the road. John, completely thrown off by Greg's random leap out the vehicle. He swapped seats and pulled it off to the side of the road before jumping out himself.

Lestrade was yelling something, but John could barely hear. The explosion had caught up with him.

Greg was still screaming something when people started to pour out of the building. They were all coughing and covered in debris, but seemed intact. However, there were probably people buried under the rubble that needed help.

John was in before he knew what he was doing, with Greg behind him. They fought their way through the mob trying to get out. The wall had collapsed on one side, but John could see the sky through the falling bits.

Lestrade started to pull pieces of the rock away to make a hole big enough for anyone that had been on the higher floors to crawl through. It was lucky that the building had more blown off rather than caved in.

Finally, John heard what Lestrade was yelling.

"Sally? Jack! Sally! Jack, please!"

"Greg!"

Climbing through the hole they had made was Sally and close behind her was Anderson. Greg made a strange noise and pulled them both through the wreckage with superhuman force. He grabbed Sally under her arms and set her down, only to come back up and pull Anderson out by his waist. For a moment, he just stood there in front of them as they brushed themselves off and checked on each other. And then without any shame at all, he kissed Sally full on the mouth and embraced Anderson with incredible enthusiasm. It broke a barrier between the three of them. Greg released Anderson, only to bring them both into an embrace. All three of them cried on each other's shoulders. It was a contrast to the destruction and chaos around them, and it was beautiful.

John would have been touched by such an open display of relief and happiness. It was breathtaking. But then he reached up and touched something that felt very much like skin. He quickly pushed himself forward to try to reach farther. It was someone's hand. He grabbed it and pulled a little, trying to assure the person on the other end that he had them. However, he fell backwards to reveal that he was holding an amputated arm. It was an arm he recognized because of the watch on its wrist.

Dimmock was dead.

The death toll made it to six. This included Dimmock, Mrs. Stamford, her two children (a boy aged 10 and a girl aged 7), and two others. Security footage was released a few hours later and John stood around with Greg, Sally, and Anderson (who he now knew was called Jack) trying to make sense of what had happened. The entire event became all the more tragic when he saw where the bomb had been. Some of the footage had been tampered with, but the last hour was accounted for. The four of them watched on as the Stamford family was escorted to Dimmock's office, seemingly unaware of the fate that waited for them.

"That's Carl," Sally said quietly, her breath hitching a little. He had been one of the dead.

"Yeah it is," Greg confirmed.

"You knew him on a first name basis?"

"Yeah he was a big help to me back…" she stopped and looked at John, apparently for no reason. John would figure it out later.

The shaken people watched on as the Stamford Family was brought into Dimmock's office. Carl, for some reason, closed the blinds. Dimmoc quickly moved to question Carl. Carl moved away from Dimmock and opened one of his file cabinets. He motioned for Dimmock to look inside. The moment he did, he seemed to panic, but abruptly Carl shoved him against the wall and put a hand over his mouth. There was a gasp issued from the audience. The Stamford family made to move. Unfortunately, and continuing to earn him appalled sounds from the watchers, Carl brought out his gun and indicated that they sit down. The group around the TV were off and speculating.

"Carl…why would he do this?"

"Do you think he was blackmailed?"

"Maybe he knew about the bomb?"

John sighed, "He knew about it and he wanted to make sure it didn't go off."

The others looked at him. God, how he wished he didn't have to continue.

"There were rules. Mike told me about them. It's why he—wait what did we do about his body?"

"I sent a few men in to ready it for a coroner," Lestrade assured him, "it's being handled."

"Right. But he was telling me about the rules. Mike couldn't move until," John paused, "until I came and got him. Then we only had an hour before the bomb went off. On the other end, the Stamford family must not have been able to leave. Dimmock, too, I guess. Mike wasn't allowed to move and I couldn't…I couldn't touch him."

"Is that why he was shot?" Greg asked.

"No, that's because he told me the 'second clue'. He said something about Dimmock, so I knew it was at Scotland Yard. All I would have had to do was go in and find the Stamford family. There were two clues and he could only tell me the second one if he wanted to guarantee that we knew where his family was."

"But then why did the bomb go off? Weren't you allowed to know the second clue?"

John immediately felt sick.

"This is my fault," he mumbled.

"What?"

"This is my fault," he said again, and started walking out of the room. Greg grabbed onto his arm.

"What are you doing?"

"I have to go…I have to go to the morgue. Stamford will get there and if Molly is on her own…" John bit his lip, "I just want to be there with her."

"Look, this isn't your fault. This isn't anyone's fault."

"Yes it is! There is a lunatic out there obsessed with my old flatmate and he is racking up the body count because of it! I don't know what the hell he wants to achieve with this! Sherlock Holmes is dead. He's not going to win the approval of a dead man. And, besides, everyone thinks Sherlock's a fraud. Maybe he's trying to prove something. All I know is that it is my fault that people are dead because I bloody touched him and this insane person set the bomb off. Dimmock is dead and it is my fault. So…so many people are dead and it's my fault. Maybe if…"

A light bulb went off in John's head.

"If I take myself out of the picture, this guy won't have anything."

"What?"

"I have to go."

"John, wait—"

"I have to go!" John turned and practically ran out of the room and out of building. There were too many people around. He hailed a cab and headed for home. He had a few hours before Mike's body would be sent down to the morgue. In that time, he needed rest.

Too much was running through his head. There were six people dead, not counting the four already. But why.

Blame was the key. He needed to unlock the door and place it with someone.

He'd said it was his fault, but it wasn't. He had been living the life of the average bloke. It had been uneventful, unexciting, and now that John was out of it, he was honestly surprised he wasn't dead, too.

How had he _lived_ like that for so long? It wasn't living! What had he spent that year doing with his mind?

_Ignoring it, _his brain answered for him.

But ignoring what?

Sherlock.

There was someone he could blame, because it wasn't like Sherlock could fight back. Sherlock was to blame for this. His insanity had become infectious. First Moriarty, now this one. It was like Batman. From Batman birthed the Joker and then so many more.

Was this just the first secondary villain? Would there be another one?

But Batman was no more. Sherlock was dead. Perhaps this was just someone who had caught a case of madness a little later in the game.

The way Anderson had thought of it was starting to sound extremely plausible. Now what was Robin to do?

But was it really Sherlock's fault that people were so taken by him? John knew he couldn't blame someone for being fascinated with him. Even when Sherlock was just being his flatmate, he most certainly was no ordinary flatmate. Games of chess became battles in which Sherlock would just stare at the board and predict John's next move and the game would last under five minutes. When John had taken him out for drinks, Sherlock had actually gotten drunk and ended up deducing that the owner of the bar was consistently having torrid affairs with the waitresses and was cheating on his taxes. One time, at breakfast with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock successfully gave the winning answers to a radio contest and won two thousand pounds. He immediately gave it to Mrs. Hudson with a hug and kiss, telling her to by herself a new dress for the florist she was seeing.

God, John missed him.

No, this wasn't Sherlock's fault. Mike was not dead because of Sherlock. This was someone almost trying to bring Sherlock back from the dead with his persistence.

Well, it wasn't going to work.

Though, he noticed, it had left ten people dead, but it had brought back someone.

Him.

_You've been dead for a year and a dead man has brought you back to life._

He was alive again and he loathed himself for it. Sitting there with Mike, getting ready to solve the first clue, had made his heart race and put fire in his veins. He felt like he was awake and like the last year had been a monotonous dream. John wondered why he'd ever let himself settle for such a life.

Then he remembered the very briefly considered alternative. The alternative had made him realize that it was time to bury his past life with Sherlock Holmes and move on. Because John Watson was not going to kill himself because he was bored. He was better than that.

His mobile rang. It was Lestrade. He decidedly ignored it, as it really was not the time.

"Here we are," the cabbie said. John paid him and then quickly made his way to his flat.

Tony was barking excitedly when he opened the door. John laughed when he saw him. Tony had been washed and pampered, it looked like, and it made his coat shine a little brighter than usual.

"Daddy's missed you," John greeted. It was true. Despite the banality of it all, Tony was very loved.

His mobile rang again. Lestrade. He ignored it.

Mike was dead. His wife and two kids were dead. Four other people with lives all their own were dead.

John was going to kill this one himself.

After he made tea.

His mobile rang again and he picked it up violently.

"Lestrade, please stop—"

"Wrong again, Johnny-boy."

It was that person again. Seb. He remembered.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Oh I am going to tell you my plan."

"Your plan?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because at this point, you can't stop me."

"What exactly would I be stopping?"

"You're going to solve my puzzles, John."

"Your puzzles?"

"Yes. I've set up a few cases for you. I have plans for the cases to be more…familiar to you, but alas Mr. Mycroft Holmes had decided to get in the way of my plans. So I had to improvise. Today was just a taste of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world."

"All right, just stop it!" John yelled. Something about his words was eerily familiar.

"That's the sort of thing I can do all the time. I can blow up buildings and snipe someone from yards away. But I don't have to. I don't really want to. It's tedious. Instead, I've decided to give back to Scotland Yard what you took away today."

"I didn't—"

"You knew the rules!" The voice on the other end yelled, "Anyways, I just wanted you to know I was serious. Follow my rules and do as I say and you may end up being a detective yourself."

"I don't want to do as you say."

"Then more people will die!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

"What do I have to do?"

"I'll contact you with the four pips and send you off and running with a clue. If you solve the case, you get something for it."

"And what's that?"

"Well, for starters, I hand over to you the dirty people of the world who worked for Jim Moriarty under your nose."

John's teeth grinded together.

"But what you'll get from it," Seb continued, "is so much more. I know you, Dr. Watson. You live on this. This excitement is perfect for you. How bored have you been, sitting there on Sunday nights reading _Frankenstein_ with Tony on your lap?"

"Shut up."

"Have you realized yet how much you miss the life you lost? How much you miss the chases? How much you miss him?"

"That's enough!"

"It's not enough, John. It never will be enough."

"What are you trying to do?"

"Simple John. Bring back a dead man. Rest for now. I'll be back."

The phone went dead and John was tempted to launch it into a wall.

Sherlock was dead. Why couldn't this man, Seb, let him just be dead?

"Sherlock is dead!" he screamed and punched the wall. Incidentally, the wall was weaker and there was now a lovely fist-sized hole in it. John fell down and put his head in his hands and for the first time in ages, allowed himself to openly weep.


	4. Chapter 4

John woke up in the same place he'd slid down the wall. How he had slept there, he had no idea, especially not with his dog licking his face.

"Tony, no," he pushed his dog aside.

_Shit, _he thought, _I didn't get to see Molly._

Guilt seeped into him like a washcloth picking up grape juice. God, Molly would not have been prepared to see Stamford there, nor his family.

His phone was going off.

"Hello?"

"John! What the hell are you doing? Where have you been? No one's heard from you!"

"Sorry, I came home and I must have passed out."

"You said you were gonna take yourself out of the picture! You can't just say things like that and then disappear for the rest of the day!"

"Look, all I meant was that maybe if I stayed out of the cases, he would leave it alone. But I was wrong. He's going to strike again and he wants me there."

"How do you know that?"

"Called me and told me."

Greg sighed.

"Well, at least he's direct and open with you."

"This is sick, Lestrade."

"You're telling me. I need you to make a statement. Scotland Yard is currently off limits, but there is an office uptown we're working out of."

"Give me the address and I'll be there."

"Good. Oh and before I forget, what do I get Mycroft?"

John blinked a few times.

"Come again?"

"The man just donated a shit ton of money and Scotland Yard is going to be rebuilt within the month."

"Why can't he handle all of this?"

Of course, this was when Mycroft Holmes himself strode in.

"Because, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said to a phone by his ear, and John heard double, "the man doesn't want me."

"Whoa!" Greg said and John almost laughed. Sometimes, John appreciated the theatrics.

"Good morning," Mycroft smiled.

"Wait, I'm not a DI."

"You are now," Mycroft said slyly and then clicked a button on his phone. John heard Greg breathing still and spoke to him.

"I'll be there soon. I'm sure Mycroft knows where you are."

"All right…" Greg replied, barely registering John.

"I'll let you know if this guy makes his next move."

"Dido," Greg promised, "have fun with Mycroft."

"Yeah, thanks."

John hung up the phone and looked at Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella.

"You really need that thing?"

"No, but I have now become identified through it. I love the fact that some of the worst criminals in London tremble in fear at the site of a brolly."

"You would," John smiled. He then remembered he was sitting on the floor, "I look a mess."

"Indeed. I would suggest perhaps a shower, a cup of tea, and most certainly a shave."

"Can I get the same treatment you set up for Tony? I'd love it if I could get myself a pedicure."

"Unfortunately, no."

"Well, aren't you a buzzkill."

"I simply like your dog more than I like you."

"Ouch!"

"Don't be offended. I like your dog more than I like most people. He does have a certain charm, doesn't he?"

"It's why I got him from the pound in the first place. I couldn't resist those brown eyes staring at me pathetically from behind the bars."

"How are you feeling, Dr. Watson?"

John stood up slowly, but the question stilled him, "I honestly don't know. My friend from Uni is dead. His entire family went with him. I suppose…I'll admit that makes it easier. They're…they're with him now."

Mycroft audibly scoffed.

"If you believe in that sort of thing," John specified, "but either way, it's all right. Because if the family had lived, they would have had to deal with the pain of losing their father. They would have found out what he had done to save them eventually. I can't imagine the kind of guilt that brings."

"You can't?" Mycroft asked.

John bit his lip, "I think about how I could have saved him, but he didn't jump to save me. That would be a different kind of guilt."

"Perhaps he did, in a way. The world thought him a fraud. His best friend most certainly would have fallen under scrutiny if he'd continued to support a fugitive."

"No," John shook his head, "I would have chosen that life. I would have…" John trailed off and put his hand on his head.

"You would have followed him anywhere."

"Jesus Christ, Mycroft."

"John, it's all right to realize that you were at your most content in the company of my brother. I can tell you that he absolutely shares the sentiment."

"It's so pathetic. I think I would have chosen a bachelor's life with him over settling down with a wife and family."

"Do you really think that is pathetic? Would you not have had a higher quality of living?"

John smiled, "I would have," he confirmed, but then grimaced, "oh God I would have."

Mycroft seemed incredibly anxious, but breathed out his nose loudly, "I do hope you reread your old cases. I feel as though they will play a crucial part in upcoming events."

"As do I."

"I also hope that your feelings towards my brother do not sour. You seem to be looking at him with a particular fondness these days."

John shrugged, "What can I say? I suppose I should thank this Seb guy for what he's done. He's made me realize that I'm not really a conscious being without Sherlock in my life in some form or another. I keep thinking back on it and I've seen easily how everyone mistook us for a couple," John let out a huff of laughter, "I may actually end up making that mistake myself from time to time."

Mycroft grinned, "He loves you, too."

"No, he didn't," John said instantly, but then backtracked, "I don't love him."

Mycroft shook his head mockingly, "No, of course not."

John just looked at him, "Shut up!"

Chuckling at John's teasing tone, Mycroft twirled his umbrella absentmindedly, "I hope you are prepared to be a permanent member of this war. He seems to have a fascination with you as well as my brother."

"The only thing I don't get is why. _Why _is he doing this?"

"Sometimes, even we don't know for sure."

"I'll make sure that doesn't slip to the papers," John giggled.

"It has been nice catching up," Mycroft said and turned to leave, but then swiveled back.

"I forgot to ask: why is he called Tony?"

John flushed, "It's a modern culture reference."

He tried to keep it at that, but Mycroft raised an eyebrow. John rolled his eyes and explained:

"My dog was named after Tony Stark, better known as Iron Man. Iron Man is cool and all, with his gadgets and toys, but I've always loved Tony Stark. Tony Stark, underneath the suit, pretends to not care about anything. But he cares more than anyone. He's also a genius. But no one sees that. Everyone just puts him on a pedestal as Iron Man."

Mycroft let out a ridiculously mocking laugh, "You've named your dog after my brother without naming it after my brother."

John blushed even more, "Have a good day, Mycroft."

"I'll be seeing you again soon!" Mycroft said cryptically. He exited the flat and a black car pulled up for him almost simultaneously. John rolled his eyes.

So he was back in the game.

With all of the darkness that had already been brought on, John hated himself for noticing a sliver of light. So many lives had ended, but it was like his was coming back to him.

_Damn you, Sherlock, _he thought.

It took a month before his phone went off again to bring up the number of his new tormentor. The picture was of the morgue and John left work within the next five minutes to rush off. He'd called Greg on the way and when they'd both arrived, they found Molly huddled in the corner, crying. The body that had been rolled in was in a full-size body bag, but inside was one of her cats. To John's absolute horror, he realized that the clue was _in _the cat. To John's complete disgust, Molly had to do the dissection.

John had never seen Molly cry over a body.

The clue inside of the cat turned out to be a piece of paper that said, "the stars shine here, even during the day". John had panicked at first, but Molly knew instantly that it was referring to the planetarium. The bomb was strapped to a brand new janitor who was sitting on the stage of the planetarium. It was the same place where John had pulled a gun on the Gollam when he'd had his large hands wrapped around Sherlock's head. John remembered the look in Sherlock's eyes and found it mirrored in the eyes of the janitor. He looked at John as if he was his savoir.

Until it was revealed that the janitor had been one of the men Moriarty had hired to kill Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't gone through with it, but he would not tell why. He informed the interrogators that he would rather die than give up that secret. Lestrade admitted he was tempted to oblige him.

After that, the clues were never a problem.

For the next year, Seb kept John busy. Every one to two weeks, he would call up and John would have to drop everything and go. His employer was, astonishingly, one-hundred percent okay with it. John suspected the British government was involved in that.

The clues started to get a bit more suggestive. There was the one that John had had to retrieve from the back of whatever painting it was that had replaced the fake painting all those years ago that had said _his bleeding head, your bleeding heart._

Moriarty's assistant in the Pentonville Prison escape had been sitting on the bench outside of St. Bart's.

Another time, John had been sent a picture of a comic book store. John recognized it as the store he and Sherlock had gone to (dressed as ninjas, God help him) for The Geek Interpreter. Between the pages of the 1st issue of Iron Man, an issue he had to practically bend over and kiss the boys working there to even touch, was a slip of paper informing him that _I've grown tired of the K3._

K3 referred to numerical value of Sherlock's order at Angelo's. The owner of the restaurant, and the petrified patrons, were very relieved to see Lestrade haul away a man who had apparently been hired to open up the Bank of England.

Then came the infamous one where Greg hadn't been able to get to him and the police around him were severely judgmental. The clue was supposed to be found in the (rebuilt and refurbished entirely due to Mycroft's demented need to 'keep it ready for him') 221B. He'd located it in the cushions of Sherlock's old (but new) chair. It had read _he fell in love but fell apart._

John had been a minute away from the bomb going off when he spotted a man sitting on the roof of St. Barts. He'd only spotted him because he was wearing a blue scarf. It was lucky Greg was off the case; John doubted he would have taken to highly to cuffing the man once charged to kill him.

Each clue would bring John to one place regarding a former case, but then the bomb would be somewhere relating to Sherlock.

Well, Sherlock and him.

It became more and more personal, touching on ridiculous levels and insinuating more and more with each step. The clues began to have praise written on them as well, like "you're making me rather proud" or "Sherlock would be pleased" and once "look at you go".

Only once did John miss the man with the bomb. He called a red flag on it; it had been something to do with Sherlock and Moriarty because a cab (the one used for the "Study in Pink" murders) had detonated. Luckily, there were no casualties.

Then, one day, they stopped. It went two months with nothing. Everyone began to get optimistic, as the media had picked up on the reoccurring happening of criminals being strapped to bombs. John was beginning to be a hero, as everyone thought he was stopping a mass cult of repenting criminals on a suicide mission.

The last call John received from Seb was short and sweet:

"It'll be the anniversary soon. Prepare yourself to say goodbye again."

And that was it. Two months of peace and quiet.

"John, there's only one thing left."

Greg and John had become quite close during the whole ordeal. During all of the chaos, Greg had left his wife and had started dating Molly. On top of things, Greg had started to coach John into coming to terms with how John felt about everything.

John realizing he was not only partly gay, but also in love with a dead man had been a horrible night. While it seemed so obvious afterwards, it was like a shock to his system. Greg had called Molly and they'd all ended up sitting on the couch eating ice cream and watching Doctor Who.

"Yeah, but what is he going to do?"

"Think we'll get lucky and he'll throw himself off of St. Bart's?"

"Maybe he'll put a bullet in his head," John smiled, "but I don't think we're that lucky."

"Nor do I," Lestrade agreed, "but I think it has less to do with Moriarty's crimes and more to do with Sherlock."

John's phone went off and both of them looked at it nervously. John checked the number and looked at Greg apologetically. Greg sighed.

"I really just wanted to have a pint."

"Yeah, me too," John smiled. He opened his phone and saw the picture. The blood in his veins froze up. It was as if he were to move, his entire body would disintegrate.

"Greg," he choked out.

"Oh bloody hell."

The picture showed Sherlock's grave.

"Let's go," John grabbed his jacket. He made to hail a cab, but Greg nodded towards his car.

"I haven't drank anything. We need to move."

They were driving in silence and John was breathing irregularly. He hadn't been to the gravesite in two years. He tried to mentally prepare himself for the sight of it.

It turned out he didn't have to. When he arrived, the headstone was missing, the ground was dug up, and the casket was also absent.

Mycroft was standing near the grave.

"Everything is about to end, Dr. Watson."

John looked at him in amazement.

"What do you mean by that?"

"This is the final problem. Seb will reveal what this has all been about and," here Mycroft took a great pause, "another's silence will cease."

"Who's silence?"

"Molly Hooper's."

John stared at him, confused out of his mind, then looked at Greg. Greg was looking at the ground.

He knew something.

"Greg?"

"John, don't ask."

Mycroft let out a low chuckle, "Yes, I thought she would have told you."

"Greg!" John shouted.

"Now, now, Dr. Watson," Mycroft scolded him and then held up a slip of paper, "the instructions are thus: 'stand here and wait, for your kindred spirit cometh'. Quite dramatic, this fellow."

John scoffed, "Yeah like you wouldn't know about that."

"Come now, Detective Inspector," Mycroft ordered, "we've no business here."

John watched them walk away and then began pacing.

Where was Sherlock's casket? Where was his body? Where was his headstone?

Why did he have to come here?

John sat by the grave for hours and hours, waiting for whatever it was.

He wanted a blanket. A warm blanket. Or a big, long coat and a scarf.

He wanted the man in that scarf.

John had long since realized that, while he would be happy living platonically with Sherlock till the ends of his days, perhaps it wouldn't have been such a bad thing to hope for more.

But it was useless now. Sherlock was dead.

Though, John couldn't exactly see that now.

His phone had just hit six when he felt something bite his neck. When he pulled out a tranquilizer dart, he cursed, and promptly fell unconscious.

Light was flickering in front of him. His eyes were trying to see for a few minutes before he realized he hadn't even opened them yet.

He was tied to something. It was a regular metal chair. His hands were tied behind the chair, and his feet were tied to the legs.

So he could get up, but he'd probably fall over. He had to see where he was.

John's eyelids put up a fight, but eventually he got them open.

He regretted it immediately.

The words _Sherlock Holmes_ jumped out at him. He looked around to see the walls were covered in newspaper clippings, grainy photographs, and even a few pieces of memorabilia. His eyes eventually went down and he realized was looking at the missing headstone and worst yet, he also seemed to have located the missing casket. John felt sick when he took note that it was open.

He doubled over when he saw that it was empty.

John coughed, trying not to throw up. Sherlock's body wasn't in the casket.

"Where is he?"

John stared at the man who had just burst into the room screaming. So this was Moran.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know," John answered honestly.

"You're fucking kidding me! All this work! I was going to burn the body in front of you and everything! God fucking dammit! This is like Jim's body all over again!"

John froze, "Jim?"

Moran smiled, teeth like an animals, "Hadn't you worked that out yet?"

"No."

"I'm Sebastian Moran, ex- go to guy for one James Moriarty."

The pieces immediately fell into place.

"Why are you doing all this? You've killed…so many people," John tried to move his wrists around. He almost laughed when he realized his luck. They were tied in a surgeon's knot. He couldn't have picked the worst one to tie John up in. He slowly and discretely started working his way out of them.

"People die all the time," Moran argued, "I'm just speeding up the process."

"What if someone killed you? You wouldn't think that way."

"What would I care? I'd be dead!" Moran threw his arms up and then ran one through his rugged hair, "That's what the boss taught me. If you shoot yourself in the head, you leave everyone else with the fucking mess. Do you know the shit I went through? The men I've handed you were the ones who tried to come after me and blame me for the mess Jim left. Do you have _any _idea what it feels like to have a massive criminal legion after you? I had to go into hiding after Jim shot himself!"

"None of this makes any sense! Why try to bring Sherlock back, then? He's dead!"

Moran gaped at him.

"It's not been about him! It's been about you!"

John went still, "What?"

"Don't you fucking get it? I hate Sherlock! I fucking hate him! This hasn't been about him! It's been about you! Because when I came back, I realized the only person who could possible understand what I was going through was you!"

John shook his head unconsciously, "No, I don't—"

"No, you don't get it," Moran smiled and took a drag of his cigarette, "so let me explain."

Moran pulled a something like a stool and set it down in front of John. He sat on it and put his elbows on his knees and leaned in, getting right into John's face with a twisted smile.

"I know how it felt to be you."

Trying not to breathe in, the smell of smoke extremely heavy, John cocked his head away, "What do you mean?"

Moran took another drag and, thankfully, blew out away from John, "To have your life completely taken over by a mad man. To have your whole existence feel like it centers around one lunatic. To be a fucking toy for him to play with. To have him use you for your skills set and forget you exist to chase another lunatic."

"Look, Sherlock wasn't—"

"Don't you talk to me about Sherlock Holmes!" Moran yelled and stood up, looking down at John. John moved his head back farther, afraid to get hit by Moran's belt buckle.

"I fucking hate that man! He was the bane of my existence! Two fucking years of my life were dedicated to him! All because…"

Sebastian trailed off and then let out a low chuckle, "Well, you probably know exactly how I feel," he crouched down in front of John again. His face was so close John could feel his breath.

"You know how it felt when you'd watch Sherlock's eyes just positively fucking sparkle at the mention of my boss' name. He would toss you to the curb the moment he'd hear the words Moriarty. Put himself and everyone in danger just to play."

"Sherlock didn't want to play. Moriarty forced his hand."

"Did you know that's why he jumped?"

John stared at him.

"Yeah. Sherlock jumped because there were three bullets trained at the heads of that silver fox cop, your landlady, and I had a gun on you. If Sherlock hadn't jumped, you three would have died."

John felt like he was going to vomit again. Actually, he almost wanted to cry, but he was not about to do that.

"When I came back, I expected so much more of you. I came back, and I wanted to see that you had taken over Sherlock's old role. Because I wanted the best for you. What do I find? You're practically dead, leaving an imprint of yourself in the sofa. I couldn't have that, now could I? So I set all this up for you! I wanted you to see what you were missing out on!"

"You thought you could make me see my potential by redoing all the crimes Moriarty did?" John pushed, "That's not very original."

Moran half-smiled.

"The boss had the brains. I had the brawns. I intimidated. I could also build the bombs and shoot the gun."

"Yeah, but if you wanted me to think that I could be like Sherlock Holmes, you most certainly half-arsed it."

That wiped the smile of Moran's face.

"Yeah! You think we could team up? Or you think we could run around doing this for the rest of our lives? Well, no. You didn't prove to me that I could be Sherlock Holmes because you weren't Moriarty! You were a half-witted, slap-dash version. And I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John got louder now as the bindings began to slip, "I am John Watson. Soldier. Doctor. And above all, blogger. I will never be Sherlock Holmes, and that's just fine. Because one of the first things he told me was that he was the only one in the world. And he's right. _No_ one will ever be like Sherlock Holmes. No one will ever be like James Moriarty. And you know what? No one will ever be like John Watson."

"John Watson isn't anyone!"

"I heartily disagree.

The restraints fell from John's wrists, but he didn't move.

It was impossible. It couldn't be.

_No, no, no, it's not him. This isn't happening._

But Moran was looking towards the only entrance to the room. There, in the shadows, was a man.

"John Watson is everything every man should ever aspire to be."

Meanwhile, John let out a broken whisper, his voice cracking, "Sherlock?"

From the darkness, Sherlock took a step forward, the moonlight bathing him in a pale glow. He looked almost exactly the same. He was in his coat and his scarf, his gloved hands behind his back, with his shoes practically shining.

"I think, Moran, you've had enough fun trying to hold up the broken web of your former master. I'll admit being equally disappointed that John hadn't taken up the torch," Sherlock smirked at John, "but he is alive and that is quite enough for me. You, on the other hand; I believe Jim would be absolutely disgusted with your attempts at criminality."

Moran just stared at him, "How are you fucking alive? I WATCHED YOU JUMP!"

"It was a magic trick, Moran. I was never dead. I planned it all. Your master put a gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger, but I was ready for all of it. Now, he is dead and I live on."

"No! That's not fair! You fucking bastard!" Moran screamed at Sherlock, but he made no move towards him.

"I had the upper hand. He was the cleverest person I had ever met, but seemed to be malfunctioning in some way. How else could he have thought that he could win against me?"

Moran shot around and grabbed John from behind, pulling his hair to place a neck at John's throat.

"I'll kill him. I swear it."

"You were supposed to do that a long time ago," Sherlock mocked and Moran let out a snarl.

Sherlock stepped forward cautiously.

"Is this life worth it? I'm alive. If you kill John, you'll give me time to kill you. Then what? I live on. Moriarty rots and I keep going. All you'll have done was kill yourself twice. Because John is so like you."

John looked up at Sherlock in horror. How could he say that?

Sherlock must have sensed John's hurt, because he kept talking.

"John needed you to remind him that he was still alive, and I thank you for that. I worried he would continue to do nothing for years until I returned. I appreciate you keeping him active while I destroyed all that remained of the American Slave Trade as well as the Drug Cartel in Las Vegas. It's been incredible to see all John has been capable of. But now, I think, the game is over. The miraculous thing is that you can both win."

"No! I will lose if you are alive," Moran combated.

"Then kill me," Sherlock stopped where he was and held his arms out wide.

"No!" John cried. No, he had just come back! Moran could shoot him and it would be over. John would have gotten all his hope restored, all of his love, all of his happiness. He could not lose it again!

But then it hit him: Moran didn't have a gun.

He looked up at Sherlock with inspiration. Sherlock looked at him and smiled and put on hand on his back.

John reached up to put his hand where Sherlock's was on his own back and found that there, tucked in his trousers, was his gun.

He was up in a flash, pulling out of his bindings and grabbing his gun.

Sebastian Moran had intense training and no doubt would have been an impossible opponent, but John hadn't played fair. He stood up and promptly shot Moran in the head.

There was a minute of silence, both men staring at the now dead terrorist on the ground, leaving blood stains on the floor beneath him. Then Sherlock was moving, untying John's legs. There was a few moments of combating hands and "it's fine, I got it" before the bounds were untied. Then, flawlessly, the two men were kissing.

Neither John nor Sherlock would ever be able to say who initiated, but they both knew who stopped it. John pulled Sherlock back and immediately punched him in the jaw. Lestrade got there fifteen minutes later and cracked up when he saw Sherlock unconscious. Of course, John hadn't meant to hit him _that _hard, but it was all the more satisfying when Sherlock woke up on the couch in 221B covered in drool and a smug looking army doctor taking photographs.

Over the next few weeks, there would be talks. There would be packing and unpacking. There would be futures planned. But for the first day, John and Sherlock sat on the couch, sitting closer than they ever had with their fingers entwined, watching tele.

"I don't know how you lived like this," Sherlock whined.

"There wasn't much else to do," John noted.

"Did you like having him send you off like that?"

John let out a deep sigh, "I understand why you were so in love with Moriarty, but I got sick of the game a bit quicker."

"Mmm, sentiment."

"Says the man who specifically requested your new skull?"

"The other one was destroyed."

"Yes, but it just _had_ to be Jim's."

Sherlock huffed like a child and John smiled.

"You know, we do have to go to Greg and Molly's wedding."

"I didn't get an invite!"

"That's because it's hard to send invites to dead men."

"Then how will I go?"

John grinned, "You're my plus one."

Sherlock made no facial expression, but leaned in and slowly kissed John. It was very tender and very sweet and John felt his heart nearly burst from the reality of it.

Sherlock pulled away and they continued watching tele, Sam and Dean blowing away demons, before Sherlock muttered very quietly:

"Rose Tyler, I…"

John rounded on him, "You're an utter bastard!"

Sherlock did an evil laugh which turned into giggles, which made John giggle, which made Tony jump on their laps and bark.

It was so domestic and boring and simple, but John wouldn't have had it any other way.


End file.
